


All We Are, We Are Not

by Anon_Mouse13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_Mouse13/pseuds/Anon_Mouse13
Summary: When Catelyn is forced to live in the Mad King's court, she must learn how to survive.Written for the prompt: Hoster and Catelyn visit court and by chance Aerys catches a glimpse of Catelyn. He is enamored with her fiery hair and beauty and demands Hoster to let her stay at court.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jaime Lannister & Catelyn Tully Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	All We Are, We Are Not

She misses her home, her family, her life before all of this. It seems like years since she left Riverrun, since she came to King’s Landing with her father, excited to visit the capital for the first time that she would be permitted at court. When last they had come, she had been too young, a girl of ten and one. But when Catelyn had accompanied her father this time, for the wedding of Prince Rhaegar to Princess Elia, she had been a lady of five and ten, allowed to attend court and see the hustle and bustle, the finery, first hand. It had been like a dream then, even to the girl who lived firmly with her feet on the ground. Dreams had always been more Lysa’s inclination, whereas Catelyn had found little use in them. But here, in King’s Landing, she had found herself swept up on the pageantry of it all, the grandeur, the sense of being a woman grown, accepted in this world of kings and lords.  
  
In hindsight, knowing that the sleeves of her gown and unbound hair hide the bites, scratches, and bruises that have yet to heal, Catelyn would have rather remained a child.  
  
Even in the enormity of life at court, Catelyn had kept her head about her. She had remained demurely at her father’s side when in public, had stayed in their rooms when Lord Hoster had business to attend, had never strayed beyond the guest quarters of the Red Keep unless escorted by one of their guards. And yet, somehow, she had been noticed.  
  
The summons had come a fortnight after their arrival, an invitation to dine at court at the request of the king, no less. Her father had been leery of the request, had eyed her warily as he contemplated declining. But in the end, they had gone to dinner, had been seated in a place of honor among the royal family: the king at the head of the table, Rhaegar and the new princess to his right, Queen Rhaella at his left. Her father had been seated beside the queen, a space usually reserved for the Hand of the King, but Lord Tywin had been away tending business in Casterly Rock, having left shortly after the royal wedding. The whispers had started as soon as the Lord Paramount of the Trident had been shown to his seat, though no one spoke openly. No one dared. And though Lord Hoster had known the talk that would arise, he had taken the seat all the same, Catelyn beside him. After all, no one refuses the king, this she has learned. What King Aerys wants, he gets.  
  
That had been the first of many awkward dinners spent at court, and though Lord Tywin had returned within a week, their seats did not change. The Warden of the West did not appear fazed by this new development, but Catelyn knew enough about the man by reputation that she suspected he was just very good at hiding his displeasure. The whispers still followed them everywhere. Was the king making some new alliance with the Lord of Riverrun? Was the king going to rid himself of Tywin Lannister and make Lord Hoster his Hand? After spurning the Hand’s lioness in favor of a Dornish princess for Prince Rhaegar, many clearly thought it a possibility. But then the whispers had changed, as many began to notice that though the king engaged Lord Hoster in conversation at meals, his beady eyes never strayed far from the lord’s fiery haired daughter. He’s always been obsessed with fire, they would whisper when they thought she couldn’t hear. She had tried to pay no mind to such things, had stayed close to her father as the days of their visit dragged on, extending from the planned moon’s turn to nearly three. Catelyn had longed for the day they would return to Riverrun, when she would see her sister and brother, see Petyr and her uncle, when she would at last be comfortable, able to breathe once more. Sadly, such was not to be the case.

They had made ready to leave at the end of their third moon in the capital, Catelyn ecstatic to be returning to Riverrun. But then, her father had been summoned just days before they were to depart, Lord Commander Hightower coming to make the overture. He was to go directly to the king, and all at once, Catelyn’s heart sank. All around her, the maids had continued to pack, eyeing her closely when they thought she was not looking, watching her as she had paced restlessly. It seemed an eternity before her father returned, his usually kind eyes dark and heated, his voice curt as he dismissed everyone from the room. It was then that he had told her of her fate, how she was to remain in King’s Landing, companion to Princess Elia while she and the prince remained in the capital. And when they returned to Dragonstone, she would become companion to the queen.  
  
It had been said as though he was pronouncing her death sentence, and Catelyn had felt it steal the air from her lungs. Never had she been one for tears, knowing they served little purpose, but in that moment, she had wept, bitterly, angrily in her father’s arms. She was not blind, nor was her father. Being ordered to remain in King’s Landing, in the Red Keep, even under the guise of a playing companion to one of the royals, was just a ruse to keep her there, close to Aerys, whose eyes still followed her wherever she went, whose lascivious gaze she could never escape. She had begged then, even knowing the futility in her pleas, for her father to defy the king, to take her away with him anyway. It could not be done, of course, no matter how much either of them wished it, for to defy the king was tantamount to suicide. And so, when the Riverrun contingent had rode from King’s Landing days later, Catelyn remained behind, wholly alone in her new chambers, much closer to the family’s quarters than where she had been. This had not been a surprise, as most of the royal handmaidens stayed close to the family. But the fact that her quarters were private, that no one shared them with her, only confirmed her suspicions of her true purpose in being here. And when her chamber door had opened late one night, a mere fortnight after her father’s departure, and the king had strolled in, her suspicions became a reality, the likes of which Catelyn never could have imagined in her darkest nightmares.  
  
She had heard him called ‘the Mad King’, and when he had come to her room that night, he had lived up to the moniker. He had cared nothing for her maidenhood, her betrothal to another man. The king had taken his desires that night in a wash of pain and blood, not just from their coupling, but from his bites and his nails as they raked across her skin. On instinct, she had tried to fight, but a quick series of blows across her face had stunned her into submission. Catelyn had not wanted to cry, had steeled herself for what she knew was inevitable, but it had all been too much. Even now, half a year later, it is still too much, though there is nothing to be done for it. She is still in King’s Landing, though her sham title of handmaiden is now never spoken of. Instead, Catelyn has a new title, the king’s mistress, though she knows there are whispers of other words, other descriptions which are no less accurate, no matter how painful.  
  
Catelyn sits in her window sill, staring out unseeing at the city below. She has not been at court in five days, not since the king’s last visit. No one pays it any mind, just as they do not when the queen is absent for days at a time, and for that, she is grateful. It is one thing to deal with the king’s _attentions_ and the aftermath of his visits. It would be quite another to be expected to parade the evidence of them around before all and sundry. Never has Catelyn been one to hide, to back down from a challenge, but in the face of this, she does, remaining in her quarters until the bruises and cuts fade, until she is once again presentable. Mayhap this makes her a coward, but in all the scenarios she thought her life to take, in all the ways she had prepared herself, Catelyn had never expected her life take such a turn. Wrapping her arms tighter around herself, she thinks how she never thought to find herself in this situation.

Two solid raps strike her door, the knock of the man who guards her. Whether the king fears for her safety or fears she will flee, Catelyn is never without a member of the Kingsguard near. Oswell Whent appears at the door, his dark hair and perpetual scowl standing out against his white cloak. Still, she thinks she sees his eyes soften a bit as he looks upon her, and she is reminded that, somehow, through her late mother, they are kin. “Lady Catelyn,” he calls, stepping into the room, one hand on the door handle while the other rests on the hilt of his sword. “The Queen, my lady,” he says with a shallow bow, and as the words leave his lips, Queen Rhaella walks elegantly into her sitting room.  
  
Immediately, Catelyn rises, curtseying gracefully before the queen even as she feels her heartbeat quicken. Her ruse as handmaiden to the queen had barely lasted longer than her maidenhood, at the older woman’s request. Likely she did not wish to see proof of her husband’s infidelities, Catelyn had thought at the time. In the intervening moons, no words have passed between them, only looks from across the hall when Catelyn had not been quick enough to avert her eyes to the floor. She has not wanted to face the queen, has not wanted to see the condemnation in the older woman’s eyes, nor has she wanted to see the sympathy. Catelyn was not the only one to spend days away from court. Queen Rhaella did as well, and she suspects it is for similar reasons. Still, Catelyn hates pity, does not wish it from anyone, especially the woman whose husband is the cause of her suffering. “Your grace,” she says quietly as she rises slowly, not wanting to aggravate the bruise on her back and wince before the older woman, folding her hands together before her as she studies the floor between them.  
  
Rhaella, still beautiful despite the children she has borne and the husband she has lived with, smiles kindly, her violet eyes appearing warm in a way the king’s never do, and beckons Catelyn to a nearby divan. “Sit, child,” the queen says warmly, a trait Catelyn has never associated with a Targaryen, patting the cushion beside her. “I wish us to talk, Lady Catelyn.”  
  
“If it pleases, your grace,” Catelyn answers, eyes still downcast as she perches herself on the edge of the seat as far from the queen as courtesy allows, ready to fly in an instant. If what is said of the Targaryens is true, that the gods flip a coin to decide madness or brilliance, she will not drop her guard in the presence of the queen, not until she learns how the coin landed.  
  
For long moments neither of them speaks. Catelyn studies the hands that lay gently in her lap, and she can feel the queen’s eyes study her just as closely. Finally, the queen breaks the silence, not with a word but with an outstretched hand, her pale fingers catching gently in the cuffs of Catelyn’s sleeves. Wordlessly, she eases the sleeve back, gently revealing the finger length bruises around her wrists, the scabbed over gouges left behind by long nails. Catelyn submits to the inspection but does not watch, not needing to be reminded of the king’s last visit to her chambers.  
  
“He never was a gentle man,” Rhaella sighs at last. Catelyn feels a finger press softly under her chin, coaxing her to turn. Blue meets violet, and she holds the older woman’s gaze, trying to discern her motives for coming here. She does not flinch when she feels a finger trail down her neck, across her collarbone to the edge of her dress, feel it gently tug back the material, revealing the small bruises left by teeth. “Even as children, he was never gentle. I suppose I had hoped that he might be different with you.”  
  
“Your grace,” Catelyn begins in a whisper, unsure of how to respond to such a statement. To hear the queen speak of her childhood, of the time spent with her brother who was also her husband, shocked her. She knew of the Targaryen tradition of wedding brother to sister, but in all her time at court, even for all their physical similarities, Catelyn had never linked the two in such a way. “I do not –”

“Hush, child,” Rhaella replies quickly, silencing any protest with a wave of her regal hand. “I know why the king kept you here. It’s why I dispensed with your company. I had thought that by distancing myself from you, it might also distance you from Aerys, that you might burn less brightly in his imaginings, but I see now that was to no purpose. It never was, was it, my dear?” She does not wait for an answer – a good thing, as Catelyn has no answer to give – before saying, “You have tarried longer from court than in moons past. I enquired of the maester, but Pycelle said you had not sent for him. I wanted to see with mine own eyes that you were well.”  
  
“I am well enough, your grace,” Catelyn answers evenly, hoping the words do not sound spiteful, as they are only a half truth. ‘Well’ is not a term she would use to describe herself here. She does not even think she can be called ‘alive’, though she supposes her lungs still draw breath, her heart still pumps in her chest. If that is the definition of living, then she mayhap she meets it.  
  
“You will send for Pycelle when you have need of him, Catelyn,” Rhaella says firmly, taking one of her hands and squeezing it tightly. “You heal well, but you will call him if it is too much.”  
  
“It is all too much,” Catelyn whispers, the words leaving her mouth before she can bite her tongue, before she can call them back. It is the first time in all these many moons that she has allowed herself to speak aloud about what has happened, and all at once, it is too much. Her head begins to spin, her stomach to turn, and she cannot help it. Going against every courtesy she was ever taught, Catelyn stands abruptly, abandoning her seat next to the queen and all but running to the open window she had so recently vacated. Resting her hands in the sill, Catelyn inhales deeply, the air at the window as fresh as any she is going to get in King’s Landing. It isn’t home, with the scent of godswood tinged with the aroma of the river, but it is enough to stop the churning in her belly.  
  
“I am sure it feels that way,” the queen replies quietly, and though she does not turn back to the older woman, Catelyn can feel her eyes rest upon her. “You have managed it alone thus far, a strength I would not have thought you could muster in your first weeks here. You must continue to draw upon that strength, child, continue to let it carry you through. Especially now that you carry his babe.”  
  
The words hang between them unacknowledged, and Catelyn must fist her hands to keep from pressing one of them to her stomach. In all outward appearances, it is still flat. But in the past weeks, she has begun to notice changes. At night, when she stands before the mirror in naught but her shift and sees the slight curve, or when she slips into a bath after he leaves and feels the tenderness in her breasts as she washes, the wince of pain that comes from more than just his violence.  
  
“As of late, you barely eat when you break your fast with the court,” the older woman begins, and Catelyn can hear her stand, hears the swish of her gown as she crosses the room to stand beside her, “and your maids have said that you have done the same when you take your meal here. They also say that you are often sick when you rise, though your appetite returns later in the day. Though only two have come to fruition, I have carried babes of mine own, child. I know the signs well.”  
  
Again, Catelyn says nothing. What can she say? The Queen of the Realm stands beside her, telling her what she already knows. To deny would be folly, and a lie to boot. But to acknowledge it means confirming a truth that threatens the woman at her side, her very legacy. Catelyn knows all about the Blackfyre Rebellion, knows how bastards threaten the inheritance of trueborn children, how the queen may view this child as such a threat to her own sons.  
  
“How many moons gone are you, child?” the queen asks, and it strikes Catelyn as an odd thing that she could still stand so tall and proud even as she discusses her husband’s bastard with his mistress.

“I do not think more than four, your grace,” Catelyn admits quietly, turning to look at the woman beside her. The sunlight catches her hair, piled atop her head in intricate braids and loops, and it glitters like the finest spun silver. For a moment, she wonders if her child will share similar features.  
  
“A fertile thing, then,” Rhaella says quietly, the Catelyn hears the appraisal in the older woman’s voice as she thinks just how quickly her husband’s seed had quickened. “But tell me, child, why have you not gone to the maester in search of moon tea?”  
  
“I did not think he would give it to me, your grace, not to cast out the king’s child, and then he would know of the babe, would certainly tell the king,” Catelyn explains hesitantly. She wonders if that is what this conversation is leading to, to the maester being summoned to bring the drink that will help her shed the babe. She has considered it, had even wanted it when her moon blood had not come, had wanted no part of that vile man within her. And yet, as much as the child was his, it was also hers, and she could no more rid herself of it than she could a limb. “I did not wish to anger the king, nor you, your grace, nor do I wish to be rid of the babe. The child is mine, even while it is his. I love it, even if I should not, even if the king will not want it.”  
  
“Do not fret on that score, girl,” the older woman soothes, “for I harbor you no ill will for the babe. You did not come here for this, that much has been clear from the moment your father learned you were to be left behind. My husband sought you, not the other way round. And he will be pleased to have gotten you with child. He always cursed that Rhaegar was our only child for so long. And even, now, with a second son, he still wants more.”  
  
“He will not be happy with this, though, surely, your grace,” Catelyn starts, shaking her head slowly. “The child is not trueborn.”  
  
“A fact which will matter little to a king with so few progeny,” the queen replies firmly, though there is no trace of anger in her voice, nothing to suggest that she begrudges Catelyn this child. “He has his prince and he has a second son, his lineage is secure. My sons are secure. I have no fear of you, girl, or the child you carry. But now the king wants proof of his omnipotence, of the power he controls. The power to bend men to his will, to force your father to leave you here, to get a child on you so quickly. He will want more of you. This babe will not be the last, not now that he has gotten the one.”  
  
The words sink in, causing Catelyn to squeeze her eyes shut tightly at the as the full weight of the situation comes to bear upon her. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming the injustice of it, and though unbidden, a tear slips from one eye, rolling down her cheek.  
  
“Tears serve no purpose, my dear,” Rhaella tells her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “They prove a weakness that you cannot possess, not now.”  
  
“I just,” Catelyn starts, unsure of her words for the first time since she was a small child, “I never wanted this, any of it. All I ever wanted was to do my duty by my family, to wed the North as my father arranged.” With a deep breath, she squeezes the hand that covers hers. It may be foolish, but she wants to trust someone, needs someone to lean on, for she is so tired of feeling alone, and if the queen is offering to be that person, she will gladly accept. “I love my child even while I curse its father, curse the loss of a future that I wanted. How do I make peace with that?”  
  
“By building a new future for yourself, child,” the queen replies steadily. “The future you were promised to in Winterfell is likely lost to you. Word has reached the North, the Starks know that you are here, and if they know not why, they soon will. But you possess strength, Catelyn, the strength to see you through this. You must build your own future now. And you will start by sending for Maester Pycelle.”  
  
“No, your grace, I am –”

“You are well, this I know,” the older woman starts, cutting her off, “but you will send for the maester all the same, and you will tell him your suspicions of the babe. He will confirm it, and he will take the news to the king. Once the king knows, he will no longer visit you, not until after the child is born.”  
  
“But then all of court will know,” Catelyn protests.  
  
“A swelling belly can only remain hidden so long,” Rhaella reminds her, “and it is more important for the king to cease his visits. His … predilections … are not good for a babe. He knows this, has learned it through experience, and it will keep him from your bed.”  
  
“Your grace,” Catelyn starts, finally seeing what the queen is trying to do, “I do not understand. You should hate me, and my child. Why are you trying to help us?”  
  
“We are not so different, you and I,” the queen explains, a sad, cynical smile crossing her face. For the briefest of moments, her eyes lose focus, as though she is slipping back into a distant memory, but all too quickly she recovers, saying, “You forget that before he was my husband, he was my brother. I had hopes of a different life, with a different man, but such was not to be. I will help you where I can, child, to survive this madness.” She pauses for the briefest of moments, allowing Catelyn to gauge her sincerity, to see the truth in her words, before adding, “And, as I have learned, your nameday will come soon. You may thus consider this, my aid, your gift.”  
  
With that, the queen tugs on Catelyn’s hand, and she allows herself to be pulled into the older woman’s embrace. She has long been without a mother, but in that moment, she lets the queen fill that void, if only briefly. “Pray,” Rhaella whispers then, “that the babe is a girl. Aerys will spare little time for a girl.”  
  


* * *

  
All her prayers to the gods fell upon deaf ears, for some five moons later, Catelyn gives birth to a healthy, screaming baby boy. When he is laid against her chest, she can barely see him for the tears in her eyes. The pain was excruciating, worse than anything the king had ever done to her as she labored for near of a day. But even with blurred vision, the child on her chest, squirming and shrieking, is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. Cuddling the babe close, she watches as he quiets, as his red face calms and he blinks at her, once, twice, then stares, looking up at her with crystalline eyes of lightest indigo, a color that rivals the sky of a midsummer’s day. With one elegant finger, she strokes from the top of his head down his pudgy cheek, amazed not only at the softness of his skin, but the down of hair that dusts the top of his head. Catelyn had not seen it at first, the hair so light, but she feels it, and as she looks more closely, she realizes that he has the finest silver hair covering his head. All at once, the tears begin again, seeing both herself and the king in the child in her arms.  
  
“A beautiful babe, dear girl.”  
  
Catelyn smiles through her tears as she looks at the older woman at her side. The queen had remained with her throughout the delivery, only leaving when she needed to tend to young Viserys, and now she is the only one to remain in the room, having sent the maids away when the maester left.  
  
“Thank you, your grace,” Catelyn replies before turning back to her boy. She knows the king is likely being informed as they speak, that he will be on his way presently. All Catelyn wants is to protect the child, to keep him from his sire, but she knows she cannot. But she will protect him, just as Rhaella protects Viserys. In the moons since the queen confronted her about the babe, the two have forged … an alliance. Friendship is not a strong enough word for it, but while she looks at the woman as a maternal figure, she knows they are not family, not so close as that. Still, Rhaella is all Catelyn has, other than this babe, and she will not turn away from that.  
  
“What would you name him?” Rhaella asks quietly as she moves to sit beside Catelyn on the bed.

“I have no say in that, your grace,” Catelyn answers with a whisper, feels the constriction in her throat as she recognizes all that she will be denied in this child: a stake in his name, in how he is reared, in everything, because he is the son of a king, a mad king.  
  
“What would you name him, if he were your son and yours alone?” Rhaella persists, seeing the emotions that battle within the girl.  
  
After many moments of contemplation, Catelyn finally shakes her head. “I know not, your grace. I had never thought of a name for him, for I knew it would not be in my power to make such a decision. I have thought of names for children,” she adds, hearing the queen chuff in disbelief, “but they were always for children with no face, only those of my imaginings. They were children with dark hair and eyes. Those names are not for this babe.”  
  
“Indeed they are not,” the queen agrees. “Mayhap that is for the best.”  
  
“Mayhap so,” Catelyn whispers. They have not spoken of her betrothal in some time, though certain conversations, such as this one, allude to it. Ironically, the betrothal has not been broken, at least not that she is aware. Catelyn assumed, after the Starks learned of her predicament, that they would end it, for no man wants a wife spoiled by another man, even if that man were the king. And mayhap they have, and she is simply unaware. She has sent letters, one a week to her father since she was left here, and one to Winterfell, to Brandon, to try to explain, as best she could in a letter that would be read by others before being sent, about what had happened. But no replies have ever come, even when she wrote to her father to say that she was with child. She wonders if mayhap she has been disowned, if she is now as much a bastard as the babe she rocks slowly in her arms. Part of her wants to ask Rhaella, for surely the queen knows, but another part of her, the part that fears the answer, will not allow her to do so. It is a sad thing, to be so afraid of the truth. But then, fear is a constant companion to Catelyn now, even as she holds her head up in the face of it all, even when her belly swelled and the whispers became a din in her ears. Even then, she was afraid, but she could not let it show. As the queen had said, fear was a weakness, and if there was one thing the vipers at court thrived upon, it was seizing on a person’s weakness and using it to destroy them. Catelyn would not let that happen, could not when another life depended upon her so. And so she had risen above it, strength had become her ally, and she had taken the scorn and the ridicule and the dirty looks and used them to make herself stronger, to armor herself against any attack. No one, not even the king’s Hand, could intimidate her now, save one man.  
  
“Where is the boy?!” barks an impatient, slightly shrill voice, and both Catelyn and Rhaella look up to see the king enter her chambers. Immediately, Catelyn bows her head, watching the queen stand from the corner of her eye.  
  
“My lord,” Rhaella answers diffidently as she curtseys slightly.  
  
“Get out,” Aerys snaps, a cold, suspicious glance to his wife all the attention she receives before his purple eyes focus on the babe in Catelyn’s arms.  
  
Catelyn stiffens slightly at the harsh tone of his words, sees the queen do the same, though she is better at hiding it. Demurely, the queen bows again, giving Catelyn the subtlest of nods to buoy her spirits, before departing the room.  
  
As soon as the door closes, Aerys is closing in on her, and it is all Catelyn can do not to shiver as he stares at her son … their son … with an almost predatory look on his gaunt face. “Your grace,” she says, again bowing her head, though this time away from him.  
  
“The maester says he is well, strong,” Aerys begins, bending close to peer at the child.  
  
“He is, your grace,” she replies, her eyes darting between him and the babe, unsure of what he means to do. The babe merely stares up at the man, frowning slightly, as though he does not like what he sees. That makes two of us, Catelyn thinks, though she is sure to hide any sign of it from her face.

“Give him to me, then,” the king says, holding out his hands expectantly. Catelyn must fight back the shudder at the sight of those long nails and the thought of her son resting in those hands, hands that have inflicted so much pain upon her. But he is the king, this is his son. She has no choice.  
  
“A fine boy indeed,” Aerys praises as he holds the child in front of him, studying him closely. “Bigger than any Rhaella has birthed. You Riverlanders are of hardy stock. A true Targaryen, save those eyes.” He pauses here, watching as the boy blinks at him, then yawns. “Eyes of ice, from a mother of fire.” Seemingly satisfied, he returns the boy to her arms, and Catelyn quickly cuddles him close, relieved that the king seems pleased, that her child is unharmed.  
  
But then she feels a hand rest on the crown of her head, feels those bony fingers and sharp nails run through the locks of hair that came lose during the birthing. “You will give me a child of fire next, girl. Ice and fire, I’ll have both from you soon.”  
  
Catelyn is able to fight back the tears until he leaves her rooms, but as soon as the door shuts behind him, she is sobbing, even as she holds her son that much closer, that much tighter, so tight, in fact, that the babe begins to protest. He does not understand what causes his mother to shake so, to cry so, only that he is uncomfortable. Her child’s birth should not be a time of such grief, but it is. While she carried him, she was safe. The king had stayed away from her bed, just as the queen had said he would. But Rhaella had warned her – gods, why hadn’t she listened?! –he would want more, want another babe. It would start all over again.  
  
Now, as she contemplates her future, of the king’s violent visits starting again, Catelyn prays for something she never thought she would: for a babe, bastard though it will be, to come as quickly as possible.  
  


* * *

  
Catelyn is with child when the Tourney at Harrenhal is held, and though she could still safely travel, for they would likely be gone less than a moon, the king forbids it. King Aerys does not wish for her to leave the city, much less return to the Riverlands, not with his child in her belly. Thankfully, he does not take Aerion with him as he leaves to keep an eye on his crown prince, giving Catelyn and her son a reprieve from his madness. While he is gone, Catelyn spends every moment possible with the boy, taking him to the shore below the Red Keep to enjoy the sun and splash about in the eddies and shallows. Not yet two, Aerion is strong and vibrant, his laughter a beacon in the worst days of her suffering at his father’s hand. His hair, waves of silver atop his head, dances in the sunlight as one little hand grips two of her fingers firmly and he tries to catch the water in his other. His legs are strong, sturdy, though she does not trust them to be able to outrun the waves as he toys with the tide, chasing the retreating foam from the shore and then scampering back to her side as the water gives chase.  
  
In her present condition, she is in not nearly as spry as she should be to keep up with Aerion and is glad, for once, to have the ever-present accompaniment of one of the Kingsguard, knowing they will catch him if a wave tries to carry him off. Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor have been left behind to guard her and Queen Rhaella, and one of the two of them always accompanies her around the Red Keep or, in this case, to the water. There would normally be more than just two Kingsguard left with them, but Ser Harlan’s passing has left a vacancy in the order, one that the king has yet to fill. Catelyn misses Ser Harlan, for he was a kindly man, if not a bit too old for his post. She would have preferred his company to Ser Jonothor’s, though she likes Ser Barristan and how he always seems to have a smile for her son, likes that he seems to hold no judgment in his eyes when he guards her and her boy. He has every right to judge her, as do they all, but she is glad when she is granted a reprieve from the condemnation, especially from these men. They stand outside her door when the king visits, they must hear what happens. But their disapproval, from those that show it, is always for her, never for him.

For nearly a moon’s turn, Catelyn and Aerion live in their own world, away from the prying eyes of the court and the omnipresent dread that fills the Red Keep when the king is there. Rhaella and Viserys also remain and they visit often, but the five year old prince often grows bored with his little half-brother, who still cannot speak as plainly as young Viserys wishes and cannot play the older boy’s more complicated games. Still, Aerion enjoys their visits, and it gives her and Rhaella time to talk, unobserved by all but the Kingsguard members who stand respectfully outside the door. It is Rhaella who informs her that the letters she sent were all stopped on the king’s orders, that those that have come for her, from her father, are stopped as well, burned upon arrival, though they still come regularly. This does not surprise Catelyn, for when she dared to ask, only once, if her father could come to King’s Landing, to view his grandson, Aerys had exploded. She had borne the marks of that event for over a week afterward and had said nothing of her father in the king’s presence since.  
  
Catelyn also learns, along with the news of the king’s return to the capital, of how the Starks had become the center of attention at Harrenhal. With a look of sympathy, the queen informs her of her sister’s betrothal, of how Lysa will marry Brandon Stark and fulfill the agreement meant for her. The words slice through her even as her heart swells for Lysa. Her little sister will have a good life, a life befitting the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Her little sister will have the life meant for her. Catelyn’s eyes fall to Aerion then, to the little boy who fills her heart with so much joy, as she rubs a hand absentmindedly across the growing swell of her belly, feeling the tiny flutters from within, still too early to be felt outside her womb. These are the children she loves, the children who make her life here worth living, the children whose father stole her future from her. It feels as though the family she loves has forgotten she exists, even as she knows that not to be true, that her father’s letters are evidence of that, even while she bizarrely builds a new family here.  
  
The queen then tells her of everything else that transpired at the tourney. She speaks of Rhaegar’s actions, how he won the tourney and claimed the crown of blue roses, only to give them to Lyanna Stark and not his wife. It is clear by her tone that Rhaella is worried, that she fears this will not be the end of these developments. Catelyn knows, from the whispers at court, from what she has pieced together, that the high lords of the realm are dissatisfied with King Aerys. She could have guessed this, for her father had been dissatisfied with the king’s instability even before they had come to court, and he was certainly more than dissatisfied when he had to leave her behind. But if the rumors are true, and they must be to drive the king from the Red Keep for the first time since the Defiance of Duskendale, then the high lords conspire against their king on Prince Rhaegar’s orders, which means the queen has more to worry about than his pursuit of another man’s betrothed. On this, however, she holds her tongue. She will not presume to know more than she should, to suggest things so treasonous might have even crossed the prince’s mind, even if she knows that the queen would likely not stand against her son if he chose to overthrow his father.

At night, Aerion sleeps snuggled into his mother’s embrace. The boy has not stayed with her at night since he was weaned, King Aerys would not allow it. He said it would make the boy weak to rely so much upon her. Whatever his reasoning, if the king is not here to enforce it, Catelyn will not live by it. It is in these quiet moments, as she strokes her fingers lightly across her son’s head, along his silken hair, that she ponders the babe that grows within her. As before, she wants to pray for a daughter, but knows that to do so now would be cruel to Aerion. He and Viserys divide the king’s attentions, when he chooses to give them, and she knows that Aerion is frightened of his father, for he often returns to her in tears after his visits. She does not wish to subject another child to this, but at the same time, she thinks that a third son might further divide the king’s attentions, might expose them all to less of his madness. But a daughter … she has no idea what Aerys might do to a daughter. Rhaella assures her that a girl would receive little if any attention from the king, but Catelyn cannot help but worry. It seems, either way, her babes could suffer, and it pains her greatly that she must bring children into such a situation.  
  
The king returns to the capital with a renewed paranoia of everyone, most of all his heir, and a new member for the Kingsguard. Jaime Lannister is young, the youngest ever to don the white cloak, younger even than her, and the first time he is assigned to guard Catelyn, she must bite back a chuckle at his speechlessness upon being addressed by her toddler the first time. Aerion has never been shy of speaking to anyone except the king, and but Ser Jaime is unprepared for how to respond, which amuses the boy to no end. As she watches the lad, Catelyn thinks that Ser Jaime seems overwhelmed by his new position, even though, as she understands it, it is a position that his sister lobbied for on his behalf. Undoubtedly, Cersei had thought that she and her father would be staying in the capital and she would see more of her brother. But Lord Tywin has resigned as Hand of the King, angered by the theft of his heir, and slowly, Catelyn can see that the young Lannister has realized how he has been used by the king. He is lonely, for all that he japes and speaks as boldly as a man twice his age, and she tries to make him feel welcome when he guards them, make him feel as though, at least when they are alone, that he is more than just the silent watcher in the corner.  
  
“You will reach the end of your mother’s stomach soon, my lady,” Ser Jaime says as they return to her chambers from the shore. It is made as a statement, though she can hear the question in his voice.  
  
“I have a few moons yet, Ser Jaime,” Catelyn tells him, laying a hand across her middle as he holds open the door for her, allowing Aerion to dash through. She smiles as she watches her boy, dancing about in random patterns, as though chasing something only he can see. Their midday meal will arrive soon, and then he will need to nap for a bit, though she has a feeling he will fight her on that today.  
  
“It would not seem that the babe could get much bigger, my lady,” Ser Jaime answers, eyes darting to her rounded abdomen.  
  
“It would not seem so, but yet it will,” she answers with a smile, remembering her own surprise at how much her stomach could expand to accommodate her son. Turning back to her guard, she asks, “You have not known many women with child, have you, ser?”  
  
“Only horses, when I squired, my lady, or the kennel dogs,” the young knight replies without thinking, and suddenly, she sees his green eyes go wide. It is only for an instant, and then he has schooled his face back to placidness, but there is still a tinge of fear in his eyes.

“Fear not, Ser Jaime, I have been called far worse in my time here,” Catelyn says, recognizing his fear for what it was. He knows that his words could be construed as an insult to her, but he knows not the possible repercussions of them. “The king will hear naught of it from me, nor would he do anything even if he did. I am only a mistress, not a queen. I am not worthy of punishing the newest member of the Kingsguard, certainly not when he speaks truth if his words were aimed at me, or simply answered honestly if they were not.”  
  
She watches the young knight visibly relax, though it is only truly obvious in the set of his shoulders and the relief in his eyes. She would have said more had her son not decided that his dancing needs to move to the divan, where his bouncing and twirling becomes uncoordinated. He starts to lose his balance, and moving quicker than she thought she could with her belly, Catelyn catches him just a second before he sprawls headlong onto the floor. She had to seize him more by the collar of his jerkin than about his waist when she caught him and heard the fabric rip even as she pulled him into her arms. As he latches onto her neck, she chides him softly even as she soothes him, his little body shaking as much from the near tumble as from her swift action. “The divan is not for playing, sweetling, but for sitting,” she whispers as she rocks him back and forth, rubbing his back gently as he calms. “Now, you’ve a ruined jerkin and a very scared mother. Is that what you wanted?”  
  
“No,” the little boy says, shaking his head even as he snuggles closer to her.  
  
“Then will you be jumping on the divan, or any of the sofas, again?” Catelyn asks, this time a bit more firmly as he begins to calm.  
  
“No, Mama,” Aerion answers, again shaking his head.  
  
“Good,” Catelyn tells him, smiling. She doubts it will really be the last time, but at least it will be the last time for a while. Walking to the sofa, she sets him down, then sits rather awkwardly, standing the boy between her knees. Working on the fastenings of the garment, she says, “Let’s get you out of this, my boy, and into another, one you hopefully will not ruin this time.”  
  
“Off,” the toddler replies as the garment goes over his head, leaving him in a loose, white under-tunic and breeches. Pointing at Ser Jaime and then back at himself, he smiles happily and cries, “Ki’gar’!”  
  
“Kingsguard?” Catelyn asks, looking from her son in his white shirt to the knight in his white cloak and plain armor standing behind her. With a grin, she asks, “You’re in the Kingsguard now, are you?”  
  
“Ki’gar’!” Aerion cries again, laughing and clapping.  
  
“A fine aspiration, my lord,” the knight tells him, smiling as well. “The Book of Brothers notes many fine Targaryens who have served their king.”  
  
“Tar’yen Ki’gar’!” Aerion cheers, clapping and running about the sitting room, once again lost in his own little world. He is so happy, so pleased with himself, and it causes Catelyn’s heart to break just a little to think that it could never come to pass.  
  
“He is not Targaryen.”  
  
The words have left her lips before she even realizes it. Spoken so quietly, Aerion has paid her no mind, but the knight behind her has heard. “Do not say such within the hearing of the king, my lady,” he warns quietly, and when Catelyn turns to see his normally smiling, japing face turned serious. “The king calls the boy ‘Targaryen’, what the king says is truth, and you should know he has threatened to take the tongue of anyone who says otherwise. You call yourself his mistress, but it has been made clear that your protection is to been seen to with the same alacrity as that of the queen, though with you …”

Ser Jaime’s voice trails off, and Catelyn’s brows furrow as she studies him. Something wars in his thoughts, and she presumes it is his distaste for having to protect her with the same vehemence as the queen. His father had thought it a folly that a royal mistress be so well treated, had voiced his opinions on numerous occasions, had shown such opinions in his scowl whenever his gaze fell upon her before his resignation. Ser Jaime likely feels much the same. “Though with me,” she starts, picking up where he left off, “it is harder, for your vows charge you with the protection of the royal family, the king and queen. They say nothing of protecting the king’s mistress, and yet you are forced to do so.”  
  
“No, my lady,” Jaime starts, his eyes now betraying pain more so than distaste. “With you, it is far easier than with the queen.” Pausing only briefly, she sees his eyes drop to her belly as he says, “The king no longer visits you.”  
  
And suddenly, she understands. Though he is tasked with guarding her, he is also tasked with guarding the king or queen, which means he has likely been present when the king has visited his wife. He has heard what happens, what the king does to his wife when he goes to her bed. “He will not visit me, ser, not while I carry the babe,” Catelyn explains, a hand resting across her belly. She does not need to say more than that, for she can read in the young knight’s face that he understands.  
  
“You still have a few moons, you say,” Jaime finally says in reply.  
  
“I do,” she says, with a nod, thinking how grateful she is for those moons, for the peace they will grant her.  
  
“I am glad of it, my lady,” the knight replies, and Catelyn realizes that he, too, is grateful, grateful that he will be spared her cries to be added to the queen’s, at least for a little longer.  
  
She may be released from the king’s attentions in the moons leading up to her delivery, but as day passes on to day, things start to spiral out of control in King’s Landing. False labor pains come two moons too early, and Pycelle restricts her to her chambers for a week to be safe. It is while she is under orders to rest that she learns of Rhaegar’s abduction of Lyanna Stark. Ser Jaime spins the tale quietly as she watches her son play in the floor before her, his little wooden horse trotting across rugs and flagstones tirelessly, just as it has done for the last hour. The wheels turn quickly in Catelyn’s head as she assesses what she is told, what it will mean for the realm, what it will mean for her. This will not go unanswered. Lyanna Stark is the betrothed of Robert Baratheon, the sister of her former betrothed, and she can only imagine how either man will react to this. It could not come at a worse time, for she knows, through Rhaella, that her sister is to be wed soon. Undoubtedly, the wedding will be postponed for this, and if Lysa is anything like the girl she remembers from what feels like a lifetime ago, she will not take this well. Yet again, she wishes she were home, in Riverrun, to comfort her sister, to be wed in her place.  
  
“What was the king’s reaction?” Catelyn asks quietly, her eyes never leaving her son. King Aerys becomes more unstable daily, making Catelyn want nothing more than to keep Aerion with her always. But the king can take him from her at any time, something she lives in fear of every minute of every day.  
  
“The man who delivered the message was burned alive, his torched head now residing above the gate of the keep,” Jaime answers lowly, and Catelyn must suppress a shudder. Death by fire has become the king’s chosen method of execution, and if the queen’s appearance following the night after an execution is any indication, watching a man burned alive works the king into a frenzy that turns her stomach to even consider.

“And her grace?” Catelyn asks. Ser Jaime has become an ally of sorts, for though she has no control of how often he guards her, she always ensures that she is kind, conversing with him and making him feel welcome. She is preying upon his loneliness, she knows this, but it is the game she must play to keep herself alive, to keep her son alive, and when she pumps him for information whenever he guards her, she will not be sorry for it. Men may play the game of thrones, but she will play the game of calculations, of knowledge, and she will wield it however she can to serve her own interests. There is no place for honor in the Red Keep, no place for decency in this game of survival.  
  
“The queen has shut herself and the prince in her chambers, and she avoids the king and court,” Jaime tells her.  
  
And me, Catelyn thinks, knowing that Queen Rhaella will now do all she can to distance herself from the king, and that will include avoiding her, for with the babe threatening to arrive early, Aerys’ focus rests heavily upon her, though his lascivious appetites are still whetted only by the queen, will be until after she delivers. The king has long been distrustful of his wife, and of his heir. With Rhaegar doing this, acting so rashly, it will be Rhaella who feels the brunt of his rage.  
  
Catelyn wants to ask about Rhaegar, about where he might be or what he might do with Lyanna, but she will not press further than she should. Speculation would do her no good, and, if Ser Jaime knows anything factual at all, he will not reveal it to her, his oaths will not allow it.  
  
So she waits, holds Aerion close, and listens intently. Each of the Kingsguard, in his own way, gives away pieces of information, Catelyn only has to look closely for it. And once she is allowed out of her rooms, allowed to roam the Red Keep once more, she becomes the fixture in the corner of any room, listening intently, catching bits and pieces here and there, putting it all together and filing it away for safe keeping, for later use. It is on one such day, just over a fortnight since her confinement ended, that the tittering grows louder than normal, lords and ladies scurrying about much quicker than is usual. She wishes Ser Jaime were her guard this day, for she would be able to question him, but instead it is Arthur Dayne who is her shadow, and as Rhaegar’s closest friend, it is doubtful that he will tell her anything.  
  
A ruckus in the courtyard below draws her attention to a nearby window, just around the bend in the hallway. Ponderously, Catelyn moves to rise, her ever growing stomach making such an action more difficult, but before she can start down the hallway, a hand catches her elbow.  
  
“You should return to your chambers, my lady,” Ser Arthur says gently, his violet eyes almost unreadable, though she sees anger in them, along with what she thinks is concern.  
  
“What is going on, ser?” she asks, not pulling away but not giving in either.  
  
“There will be unpleasantness, my lady,” Dayne tells her firmly. “The king would not want you present.”  
  
“Then the king needs to do something about it,” Catelyn says defiantly, pulling loose from him and walking toward the nearby window. Her steps are slow, more of an awkward waddle at this stage, and she knows he could easily stop her. But he does not, only falls into step behind her, as he has so often done, as she makes her way to the window.  
  
What she sees below nearly stops her heart. For there, amidst the men who are wrestling against several gold cloaks who try to subdue them, is the direwolf sigil.  
  
“Rhaegar Targaryen!” a voice cries from amidst the scrum. “Come out and die, coward!”  
  
Her hand flies over her mouth as Catelyn recognizes the voice, and a split second later, recognizes the face of the man who gazes up at the keep, even as he tries to fight off the five men who try to subdue him.  
  
“Brandon,” Catelyn whispers, eyes burning as tears fill them. Her chest tightens, realizing that he must have ridden straight for King’s Landing upon receiving word of what happened. But how could he be so foolish? Did he really think this would allow him to reclaim his sister?

The tightness in her chest spreads to her stomach, causing her to gasp audibly, a hand slipping over the curve of her belly as the babe within kicks against it. “My lady,” Ser Arthur begins, once again taking her elbow, concern low lacing his words, “you need to return to your chambers. Such excitement is not good for your babe.”  
  
For once, Catelyn does not argue, allows herself to be led away. She blinks back tears, conscious of the eyes upon her, of everyone that recognizes it is her former betrothed and his men that are being led away to the Black Cells. She can spare no tears for him as her mind races. She must see him, she simply must, but to voice such to Ser Arthur would be laughable, for he would never agree, and to try to do so now, with the pain in her belly not dissipating, would be foolish. The babe is her priority, her children are always her priority, and so she returns to her quarters, holds her son close as she rests, calms herself as she listens to his innocent chatter, and ponders her next move.


End file.
